cast your fate to the wind

Be with me now, leaving the Isle of Pelops,
mighty sons of Zeus and of Leda, now in
kindliness of heart appear to me, Castor
and Polydeuces:

From the Jansz Cartographical Treatise on Alchera III†
The Lethen Sea, also known as the Sea of Dust, is a meteorological anomaly not documented anywhere else in the known universe. Extremely fine particulate matter perpetually suspended in continual atmospheric disturbance, a standing dust storm rippled with magnetic and electrical phenomenon. It is a true ocean, complete with tides and currents, all supporting a rich and varied ecological system. Three million people live on the Verge, the single land mass in the northern hemisphere that rises above the Lethen, most of them in port cities in the north and east. Due to the violent nature of the seas near the equator and the difficulty of travelling overland (see the Field of Fractures, Flinders & Macquarie, v3), the southern rim has remained uncharted.

† The Imperial name for Icarus IX.

Wednesday loves the season of storms.  The cruisers that dare chase her south, past the ninth beam and into uncharted storms, all of them, without fail, ended up shredded on the breakers.  The Sisters are seven massive stone columns that rise up out of the sea, invisible on Imperial sensors until it's too late for them to alter course.  This time of year, it is her practice to run full tilt at their patrols, perforate their sails with a volley of shot and then make haste for their shadows.  It's really, like shooting pips in a barrel.

Come spring, there will be a lot of valuable salvage along the cliffs, at least in the form of scrap metal.

~~~

"Captain?"

"Yes, Mr. Merrell.  Come in. Have a cup of tea."

"An it please you, I haven't time.  Maybe later.  Patrol sighted."

"Oh really?"

Merrell grinned at the predatory twist of his captain's lips.  "Aye, standard four by, with a gully mate flying escort."

"Oh they think they can pin me with a gully mate?  I do believe I'm insulted, Mr. Merrell."

"Aye.  I would be too.  Same as always?"

"Run out the guns, Mr. Merrell.  Bring her up to altitude and let's bring the Sisters some tribute, shall we?"

"Aye, Captain!"

Wednesday sipped the last of her tea, and then reached for her coat.  This time she wanted to watch the man's eyes when he realised he'd sailed over the beam into the teeth of her trap.

 

London, 2014: Ariadne Wednesday loves her job.  She acquires things for people.  Her business card says Wine Merchant, but that is largely a cover.  Not only does she travel around the world acquiring rare and precious bottles of wine, whiskey, and liqueurs, she also brings the rarest spices and ingredients to the best chefs in the world.

Other things may have been known to disappear in her presence, but only on rare occasions and only under very certain circumstances.  Jewels and art stolen by the nazis have found their way home via her suitcase.  She's also been known to indulge in specific acts of wealth re-distribution, and play merry havoc with smugglers whose cargo she deems to be unsavoury.

She speaks a handful of languages, she has contacts in every major port in the world, and she loves finding the most interesting people to spend her down time with.  She's a bit of an adrenaline junkie, as well.  She calls home, a vintage racing yacht named the Laughing Zephyr.   She's not terribly good at following the rules, and she's very good at not getting caught.  When she does find herself in a pickle, she's not above resolving a confrontation with the traditional Glaswegian kiss.